Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally.

Should Quentin Tarantino ever stop making movies (not that he should) his unique talents would be well used in the hot sauce business. Where else - besides the Defense Department and professional wrestling – are violence and creativity so closely entwined. Not in the making or selling of the product – an innocent condiment – but in the naming.

Take “Ass Reaper.” Sounds very hot, but not very appetizing. Conjures up a lot of images, too, but none of them include fried eggs. How about “Possible Side Effects.” What could they be besides heartburn and, well, ass reaping? Unless, as years of pharmaceutical advertising have drummed into us, possible side effects include vivid and disturbing dreams, suicidal thoughts and a sense of confusion, which, in rare cases, means you’re going to die in two weeks. Death, by the way is a popular theme in the naming of hot sauces. My favorite is “Jersey Death.” Like the New Jersey Turnpike, it suggests a lot of exits, all of them different. There’s the Jimmy Hoffa kind, being eaten by pigs or having Giants Stadium built on your nose. There’s the kind that Tony Soprano doled out or – kicking the bucket old school – the way Sonny Corleone gets his ticket punched at a Garden State toll booth. There’s death by pollution, gang war in Newark and the slowest and most agonizing form, watching TV commercials for the New Jersey Governor’s race.

Some names go too far, however. Spontaneous Combustion Powder, for instance. If it causes you to burst into flames, then, by definition, it’s not spontaneous. I’m skeptical, too, of Doctor Phardtpounder’s Colon Cleaner. I doubt whether it packs much of a G.I. jolt.

Finally, there’s “Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally.” It doesn’t matter how hot it is, I’d buy it just so I could go into a store and ask for it. It doesn’t seem to be sold outside of Texas, though. Besides, who would sell it? Hole Foods?